


i broke that grin, and i cut it out

by asphaltworld



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn Ish, origin story-ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25722751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asphaltworld/pseuds/asphaltworld
Summary: Roman's at a low point in his life when he meets Zsasz.+“If you think this shit is so uninteresting, Roman, you should take a look at this instead.” His face is grim. Roman’s intrigued. He opens the package up immediately. Inside are glossy, full-color crime scene photos. A man’s throat is slit, and the skin on his arms is opened up into flaps.“Wow!” Roman crows. “Who’d you have to blow to get these?” This is, probably, not the reaction George was hoping for. “This is incredible... Look how neat those cuts are.”
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz
Comments: 12
Kudos: 60





	i broke that grin, and i cut it out

**May 13, 2007**

As he watches blood spurt, jetlike, from a well-placed slice across the neck of some disloyal unfortunate, Victor reflects that it’s not so bad being a contract worker. He gets to sidestep most of the petty underworld politics that always bored him.

Victor doesn’t have any idea what this guy did to deserve this fate, but he sets to work opening up the skin along the inside of his forearms. The effect is almost wing-like. He separates the skin from the fascia below, letting it flap freely. 

There. That’s enough artistry for one day.

He leaves the man there, lying in pooling blood and his own waste. Victor’s an expert at nonverbal communication. 

**May 17, 2007**

Across the city, Roman’s eating breakfast in his loft as his dad’s lackeys brief him on the day’s news. He’s rolling his eyes already.

George, the one who reports directly to Richard Sionis, tosses an orange paper envelope onto the table next to Roman, then slams his hand on top of it.

“If you think this shit is so uninteresting, Roman, you should take a look at this instead.” His face is grim. Roman’s intrigued. He opens the package up immediately. Inside are glossy, full-color crime scene photos. A man’s throat is slit, and the skin on his arms is opened up into flaps.

“Wow!” Roman crows. “Who’d you have to blow to get _these_?” This is, probably, not the reaction George was hoping for. “This is incredible... Look how neat those cuts are.” 

George, sure enough, is massaging his temples. “That’s how _you’ll_ end up if you continue down this road, Roman.” He says Roman’s name in almost every sentence, like some kind of neurolinguistic attempt at dominance. Whatever. It’ll never work. “I’m showing you this, Roman, because I want you to see the realities of what happens when you get yourself involved in messy shit like this. The family name can only take you so far. We can pull strings for you, but Gotham’s full of maniacs like this. At a certain point, your father won’t be able to help you.” 

The room falls into an unnerving quiet after he’s done. George might know Richard, but he doesn’t really know Roman. The rest of these schmucks do, so they know what’s coming.

“ _Help_ me? Just like he ‘helped’ me through business school, by bribing all my fucking teachers before I even had a chance to meet them? The way he warned my teachers about me, all the way up to high school, telling them not to worry about my,” Roman’s already out of his chair by now, looking for some way to drive home his ire. His gaze lights upon a glass obelisk centerpiece on the table. He aims it at the wall across from him. The resulting shatter is gorgeous, and comes with a pleasant tinkling and a shower of orange-red shards. “ _Disability_?” 

He thinks distantly that George probably hasn’t seen him like this before. Surely someone told him not to lecture Roman on his dad’s sterling intentions. This is just how Roman reacts to that, every time. He’s got to learn that. Anyway, nobody’s hurt, this time.

George just stares at him with a blank face. Roman sort of wants to know what he’s thinking, but he keeps his face still and neutral, and he’s not going to ask the guy. George shakes his head once, and then leaves the room.

Roman orders everybody out, and deadbolts the door behind them. He leans against it, waiting for his breathing to slow down.

He goes into his room to look at the pictures some more. They’re hideous, and he loves them.

**June 3, 2007**

From the other side of the thick wood door comes the most timid knock anyone’s ever heard. Roman feels a surge of pride; he’s trained them well. Better to be feared than loved, right? Philosophy class taught him that. 

“Come in!” Roman shouts. He’s in his study, looking at porn comics. 

“I have another packet of photos,” John says. He produces a thick orange envelope. 

“Fantastic! Just leave them on the desk. Go back to your station.” 

Once John closes the door behind him, like he knows he ought to, Roman grabs the envelope, greedy for its contents. 

_Perfect._ It’s something particularly gory, again. Mutilated corpses, five of them, laid out in a circle. 

He’s starting to get a taste for this guy’s work. It _has_ to be just one guy. He asked his old school friend, who works as a sheriff now for Gotham City Police Department. There’s some fucking psycho going around leaving trails of entrails all over town. He (and it’s definitely a _he,_ according to Mr. Big Shot Fucking PD, which makes Roman’s dick throb just a little, like a fucking teenager) loves to use knives. No bullets at the scenes. 

Roman thinks, _Oh, I’ve_ got _to meet him._

Roman’s heard about them, those silly girls who write letters to serial killers and marry them in prison for a chance at conjugal visits and single motherhood. They’re starting to seem less silly to him every day, though.

**June 19, 2007**

Victor’s walking through downtown Gotham, looking for something to eat. Gotham’s on fire tonight, weather-wise, and his white undershirt is starting to soak through with sweat. 

Some huge, lumbering fucker smacks into him as he hurries by, surely headed to some pointless, dead-end job. Victor turns to watch the man go, as he steamrolls through the crowd. 

Someone like that, he’d love to set free. The man has nothing worthwhile in his life, and Victor’s intervention would make everything that much better. 

Victor’s not even hungry anymore. He trails after the man. His bulk makes him easy to follow. Victor follows him past pizza places, pawn shops, jewelry stores, until they’re coming up on an empty stretch of street in a shitty neighborhood. Victor walks fast, closes the gap between the two until he’s following only a few yards behind. The guy doesn’t seem to notice. Victor blends into crowds better than usual today. His bleached hair is hidden under a cap. 

Victor waits two minutes and then lunges forward. He slams the man against the pulled-down corrugated metal door of some garment warehouse. The man’s head hits the wall, which is good. It stuns him.

Victor’s knife is in his hand, a familiar, comforting extension. It feels fucking wonderful to be doing this tonight; Victor thought he was just hungry, but it was a much deeper ache. This is what he needed. 

“What’s your name?” Victor has a knife up to his neck, cutting in shallowly. It’s just a trickle of blood, but it looks so fucking good. 

“George Anagnos,” he gasps out. Good. Victor likes to hear them say it, before they go, and not everyone will do him the courtesy. 

“Do you have a family?” 

“Yes, I do, I have a family,” the man blurts out. “Two girls and a boy, and my wife, she’s expecting another girl.”

“Okay,” Victor says.

He slides his knife south, not slicing deep, but cutting open the shirt and jacket on this man. Victor wonders if he’s ex-military or something, because almost everybody cries and screams at this point. It’s a bit of a letdown that this one’s so quiet. When he gets to the man’s belly, he sticks his knife in just once, deep. As deep as the hilt will let it go. 

The man screams, _finally_ , and Victor dives in again. He widens the cut, slices his belly so it gapes open like a smile. It’s a real fucking mess.

Victor’s happy with it, so he takes the man’s wallet and heads home. He tosses the credit cards on the ground as he walks, but keeps the identification and cash.

**June 24th, 2007** ****

Roman’s searching his wardrobe for his most festive black suit. There are a few contenders, including a sparkly, metallic woven silk and a black-on-black floral jacquard. He settles on the jacquard, so nobody can give him shit for “dressing inappropriately.” He hates that so much, and with his aunts and parents in attendance, he’s sure it would happen.

The old priest wastes twenty minutes of valuable breath trying to convince people that George was a good man. Or, if he wasn’t really a good man, he was a religious man, and he repented often, so probably the burden on his soul was light enough to get into heaven. Probably, but not certainly, and if anybody wants to learn more, they should get their asses down to this building Sunday morning like all the good Christians. 

Roman’s heard it all before; death is a great marketing opportunity for the church.

The crowd is upper middle class Gotham to upper class Gotham. He even sees the butler for the fucking Waynes in attendance. Roman guesses all the servants must know each other. 

There’s someone there who stands out like a sore fucking thumb, though. Bleach blond hair on tan skin, a certain roughness around the eyes. He looks like he could hold his own in a fight. Roman’s not so sure when he got so into rough trade, but currently he can only get off to men who look like they could kill him. 

Roman knows funeral hookups are mostly a great way to get an STD and a scolding from some relatives, but he hasn’t gotten laid in almost a month, which is fucking crazy. He’s just been spending all his time in his apartment, like a fucking recluse. He thinks maybe he should say hi. He thinks maybe they should fuck here, in the church bathroom, his family lurking around outside, like fucking grief vultures they are. 

By the time he collects enough himself to saunter over to Bleach Blond, though, he’s disappeared from the scene. A fucking waste and a disappointment. 

He spies Richard from across the room, hurrying over in his old-man gait, no doubt ready to deliver a lecture. Roman takes that as his cue to leave, making a swift exit out the back door of the church and texting his driver the cross streets so he can pick him up. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he slides into the back seat. 

“Mr. Sionis, I hate to bring this up, but my payment for last month is almost a week late,” his driver says, not moments after he’s settled in.

“Mmmm. I’ll have Jean look at it. Remind her, if it doesn’t come through in the next few days. She’s in charge of all that stuff.” Roman’s sliding down his seat, heavy with the free wine from the event. It was all terribly cheap, of course, but it’s not a funeral if you don’t get at least a little wasted.

They make a detour to pick up charcuterie, because _maybe_ Roman’s thinking about having a party, and he wants to oversee the selection himself.

Richard’s waiting for him when he gets back to his loft. He looks annoyed already, because, well, like father, like son. They both hate waiting for anything, and throwing cash at something usually mitigates the wait time. 

Roman’s pleased to note he looks uncomfortable sitting on a showy velvet couch with a low back. It’s nothing like the huge, leather monstrosities he knows Richard prefers.

“Roman.”

“Father.”

“I came here to tell you that I’m not going to replace George this time. You’re a grown man. You’re into your thirties now, for fuck’s sake. It’s sink or swim at this point, son. I hope you choose to swim.” 

Roman breaks into a grin, though even he knows it’s tasteless. The end of an era. The end of his father’s spies being allowed full access to his apartment, his life, and him. 

“That’s great news.”

“Is it? You hate being a Sionis that much? I think it’s served you well, so far. Except for how you’ve chosen to squander it. No, I don’t think my money’s going to take you any further in life than it already has. That brings me to the other purpose of my visit.”

Roman waits.

“I’m cutting you off, Roman. _That’s_ what this is about.” He pauses here, the dramatic bastard. “You’re up here, fucking around, using my own money to embarrass me. It’s a goddamn disgrace.” Richard is up and pacing, now. “You can keep this place, because you already own it, and the stocks and bonds, of course, those will remain in your name. And that tacky little club, well. You made your bed, so lie in it. Pretty soon that’ll be just an income-suck, a fucking revenue black hole. But an allowance? Fuck, no. Not anymore. This is the last time I let you disappoint me.” 

Roman grins widely. “Is that all? Okay, I get it. My old man wants me to stand on my own two feet. Okay.”

Richard stares at him coldly.

“Okay. You can go now.” Roman says, his smile frozen on his face. 

Richard doesn’t move. 

“I _said,_ you can _fucking_ leave!” Roman sweeps the coffee table clean, sending a glass, coasters, and knickknacks flying across the room. 

Richard cracks a smile for the first time since he’s been there. _Finally_ , he gets up, and moves away from the table. Roman picks up the couch cushions, and throws them at the walls. He’s unplugging the lamp, he may as well trash the useless fucking thing, and as he whirls around, brandishing it like a fucking sword, he realizes his dad’s still in the room. Just standing by the door, smirking and watching him. 

It’s really fucking creepy.

Roman lets the lamp slip from his hands, and it bounces harmlessly off the floor. He’s breathing kind of hard, which makes him feel pathetic. He makes a note to join a gym. Somewhere private. 

Richard seems to have had his fill of his crazy fucking son acting like a lunatic, so he slips out the door and closes it firmly behind him. 

“Leave me alone,” Roman grits out, his head in his hands, but he looks up to see that all the staff have already left the room and he’s there by himself. 

He lies back on the couch and wipes away tears, knowing they’re just a product of overexertion.

Roman’s used to his dad being a fucking dick, and it definitely doesn’t make him sad anymore.

**June 25, 2007**

The funeral was boring, but full of rich Gothamites. Zsasz almost wishes he was still a pickpocket. These days, his face seems to stick in people’s minds a little too much for that.

It’s fun to say goodbye to people, though. He doesn’t usually do it, but he wanted to see George off, and get a look at his family.

“Stop with the flamboyant shit,” his latest client tells him. “You’re making a name for yourself.”

Victor smiles.

“Don’t fuckin’ smile at me. In your line of work, that is a _bad_ thing,” the man explains. “I want these people dead, unremarkably so. As few stab wounds as possible. Nothing fancy, okay? I’m not paying for showmanship.”

Victor shrugs, and takes the payment.

When there’s someone squirming underneath him, though, fighting for breath and about to spray blood all over the place, Victor loses himself. It’s just so fucking _good,_ and he wants to make a statement.

He slits the throats, he leaves corpses, sure, but he also trails a hand through the blood and does a little finger painting. 

_Nothing Fancy,_ the wall behind them reads.

Maybe it’ll rain tonight, wash away his work, and the client will be happy. Or maybe it’s time for Victor to start looking for new clients.

**August 1, 2007**

Roman meets with his financial advisor, Jean, to go over his finances and figure out which stocks he wants to sell, now that he’s “financially independent,” as Richard called it in a formal letter he had delivered to Roman’s place.

Roman doesn’t understand why she can’t just do it without him. She’s the expert, anyway. But she tells him it’s illegal for her to do that. So he sits with her and makes a series of impulsive decisions, trying to see if he can earn her disapproval.

The meeting goes slowly, as Jean explains things to him and Roman lets out a volley of decrees like “Pharmaceuticals... Let’s keep that one. Who doesn’t love popping pills?” and “Ugh, bridges? Sell that.”

“Do I have enough to keep on my staff?” Roman asks eventually, wincing. It took him the better part of an hour to work past the dread and ask the question.

“You still have your club, Roman. Now might be a good time to invest in that,” Jean replies evenly.

“So that’s a no.”

“It wouldn’t be smart,” she says bluntly. Roman hates bluntness, but he can’t say shit to Jean because she’s great at her job and he’s scared of losing her. The straight world is such a fucking drag.

“So. Okay. How would I ‘invest’ in a club I already own?”

Jean looks at him. It’s a neutral, professional look, like everything else about her. Her black curls are cut in a simple bob and she’s in a sharp black blazer.

“You could update the decor, add some entertainment... I take it you’re pretty into Gotham nightlife. Why not make it more reflective of your personality?”

Roman barks out a laugh. “No one’s ever told me to put more personality into anything.”

“You have a lot of knowledge on clubs. No one can say you don’t have a sense of style. If you worked with an interior designer, you could drag that place into the 21st century.” 

“I’m into the vintage look,” Roman scowls. God, he hates being lectured. Everyone, everywhere is always trying to tell him what to do! He can think for himself, whatever his fucking shrink says.

“I’m not saying it’s not gorgeous now. But you could make it truly high-end, Roman.”

“I’ll think about it.” 

“Take these business cards, and they can give you a quote.”

Roman slips them into the inner pocket of his jacket, and figures they’ve done enough for one day.

“Okay, Jean. Take care. I’m headed out now.”

“Bye, Roman.” She’s back at her computer in an instant. Roman tries and fails not to take it personally. He buys a pack of cigarettes on his way home and smokes half the pack in his own car as an act of defiance. 

He almost throws up, and then he has to let the car sit in the garage with all the doors open for twelve hours in an attempt to get rid of the smell. It doesn't work, of course, and he ends up shelling out for car detailing. 

He smokes the other half, scowling, while he waits for them to finish it up. 

**August 3, 2007**

Roman’s not exactly having cash flow problems yet, but he’s trying to lay low for a little while until he gets his affairs in order. That means no new clothes, and no hosting parties. He’d had to eat that damn charcuterie plate by himself. Without a gaggle of staff members around his apartment or accompanying him wherever he goes, he’s suddenly spending a lot more time alone than he’s used to.

He’s still indulging his obsession with Gotham’s latest knife maniac, though. He’s in the process of hiring a private detective. He has a steady flow of crime scene photos to look at, because the guy is fucking prolific. 

Roman doesn’t want to die, but he knows he has to meet this man. He doesn’t even know who he is, but he can’t stop thinking about him.

**August 6, 2007**

“I’ve got him.” Roman doesn’t even have to ask who the fuck is calling him from an unknown number; he’s seen enough cop shows to know that his guy Maurice has the goods on that crazy fucking Knife Guy. 

“Do you have an address?”

“Yessir. I got a picture, too. You want it?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely. Send it over ASAP. This is great fucking news.”

A few hours later, he holds an address and a glossy photo in his shaking hands. 

The address, predictably, is in a shithole part of town. The man’s face is what has his attention. The picture is at an angle, so Roman’s only treated to the left side of his face. He looks defiant, even just walking down the street. There’s something lurking in those brown eyes. Thick scars are visible on his neck, and further down that tan skin. He has a chain around his neck and a simple black shirt hangs half-unbuttoned. 

Knife Guy looks small, compared to the people around him. Black stubble contrasts with cropped silvery hair. Roman wants to touch him, but he has to settle for touching the photograph. 

The address, though, that’s his way in. 

Roman’s had his eye on a gorgeous set of Alaskan hunting knives, and now he knows where to have them sent. He adds a note with an XO, and stops to think for about five seconds before scribbling a heart, too. He tucks that into the box. 

Letters, chocolates, knives... He’s going to send them all. He wants to do this _right_. 

**August 10, 2007**

Victor’s just trying to leave his fucking apartment, but there’s a big red box on his doorstep with a ribbon around it. It’s kind of freaking him out.

He kicks at it a little, but it doesn’t immediately explode. Victor takes that as a good sign.

He wonders how stupid it would be to open it up. Pretty stupid, right? This city is full of people who want him dead.

He sighs, and goes to grab a pair of scissors from the kitchen. 

Inside is a box of chocolates. A really expensive-looking box, with velvet flocking and gold foil on the packaging. He starts to laugh, because what else can he do? There’s no way Victor’s going to eat strange chocolate left on his doorstep. He does open the package, because he wants to get a look at these chocolates before he tosses them in the trash. 

The candy comes with a little paper menu describing all the different flavors inside. The smell rising from them is rich and overwhelming. There’s coconut cream, raspberry, toffee. Some of them are dusted with gold, and they sparkle even in his dim apartment. 

Victor sighs. He grabs a trash can and empties them into it, then pours bleach over the top so he’s not tempted. 

It would be really fucking stupid to die from eating a poisoned little treat.  
  


**August 14, 2007**

Someone’s at the door to Roman’s flat, which is fucking weird because it’s the middle of the goddamn night, and no one has actually visited him here in weeks. He throws a robe on over his pajama shorts and squints at the clock, to see that it’s nine a.m. Who the hell is disturbing him at this time of day?

Roman scowls and opens the door just enough to see who’s harassing him. There’s someone there, alright.

“I killed your man,” he says. He’s wrist deep in blood, but Roman looks at him and sees an angel. Complete with silver fucking halo.

“My man?”

“Some middle-aged fuck with a camera has been following me around for weeks. Like I wouldn’t notice. I killed him, and his address book led me straight here.”

“Fuck,” Roman hisses. “Maurice is a fucking idiot. Well, come in.” He flings the door open. 

Knife Guy just stands there. Cocks his head, like he’s not sure what’s going on. Well, good. Roman hates being confused alone. 

“I said, come in! You can clean up in here.”

The man follows him in, eventually.

“I’ve been getting a lot of weird stuff in the mail,” Knife Guy says loudly as he scrubs his hands in the stainless steel kitchen sink. “Like, fancy fucking boxes of chocolate, which was weird. And flowers. But I’m a lovable guy,” he grins with gold teeth on full display. “So I thought, okay. And _then,_ there was this box of knives. And that’s when I started getting suspicious. I thought, who’s watching me? And I got my answer when I killed that old bastard.”

“I just wanted your name,” Roman says. “I can’t believe I have to say this, but. Look. I’m not with the feds or anything. I admire your work. Have for a while, even before George.”

Knife Guy comes closer, and Roman feels more like prey than he ever has before in his life.

“Baby,” he says, voice low and rough. “If you wanted a name, all you had to do was ask. I saw you at that funeral. Watching me.” Roman blinks, and it slots into place. He was kind of fucking drunk that afternoon. He remembers now. “Is it revenge you want?” The man tilts his head to the side. His lips are parted, and he’s looking at Roman with such focus. 

“Revenge?” Roman laughs. He can’t stop himself, and then he’s in a full-on laughing fit. “I wanted to buy you a fucking drink! That’s what the fucking flowers were about. George dying is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Wish I’d thought of it myself.”

“Okay. Well. That’s a new reaction.” Knife Guy scratches his head. 

“I’m Roman,” Roman says. Because he might as well. The man he’s been waiting for all these months is finally here, staring at him, dripping water all over his floors. Wearing a cheap, tacky t-shirt. 

“Didn’t eat any of that chocolate,” Knife Guy says. “Thought it was someone trying to poison me.”

“Do you want some chocolate now?” Roman says brightly. “I had a box that I was gonna send...”

“I don’t like sweets.”

“Are you sure? Look, I’ll eat one with you. So you know it’s not poisoned. Hell, the box is still sealed.” Roman has never tried this hard to get anyone to eat any food. He doesn't know what's wrong with him. 

“I don’t think so.”

“Well.” Roman feels put out. “Did you like the knives?”

“I _love_ knives,” Knife Guy says.

“But did you like the ones I sent?”

Knife Guy looks at the ground. He’s almost sheepish.

“I used them on your man.”

“Stop calling him my man. That’s the furthest thing from the truth. I met him in person like, once.” Roman stops. “You used my fucking knives?!”

“Thought they were mine.”

“They are, they are. Shit. That’s fucking great! That’s really what I wanted. I want to buy you all the knives in the world,” Roman says, and he sinks down into an armchair.

“Roman,” Knife Guy says. Roman perks up.

“Yeah?”

“Just testing your name out. You know, with George, I had him tell me his name before I killed him.”

“Oh.”

“Didn’t ask your guy, though.” Knife Guy continues.

“Well. It was Maurice. Now you know.”

“Cool.” Then he says, “Were you sleeping? Or do you just wear that during the day.” His eyes trail over Roman’s unstyled hair and bare chest.

“I was fucking sleeping, yes,” Roman says. “I’d like to get back to it eventually.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I guess you don’t need to know my name then.” He takes a few steps toward the door.

“Fuck! No, come back. I really want to know. Do you want me to beg? I’ll beg on my hands and knees.” Roman slides out of the chair onto his knees. His robe is slippery, so it’s not hard to do. 

Knife Guy rolls his eyes. He comes closer, though.

“I think you’re a tourist.”

“What?” Roman says sharply. “I’m a goddamn Gotham native.”

“No, not like that. You think crime is fun and exciting right now, but I don’t think you have the stomach for it.”

“You’re wrong.” Roman scoffs.

“Prove it to me.” Knife Guy smirks, and leaves the room. 

Roman Sionis doesn’t chase after people, as a rule, so he has to just stay on the floor and sulk about it. 

He hears an odd kind of shuffling noise outside his apartment, but he can’t be bothered to check. It’s not inside, so it’s not his problem.

The next day, though, he’s leaving his place to go downstairs and check out the club. 

When he turns around to lock the door, he sees that someone has carved deep, scratchy letters into the black wood. The door’s completely fucking ruined; he can’t just have someone paint over that. The letters would show through anyway. 

“What the fuck is _Zsasz_ ,” Roman says aloud. Gotham really is full of fucking delinquents. He doesn’t mind it, so long as they stay away from his shit. No goddamn respect for property.

It’s not until later, when he’s looking at a mind-numbing book of carpet samples, that he puts two and two together.

When he goes out to meet yet another interior designer for lunch, he finds a little memento on the passenger door of his BMW. 

“Oh, he fucking didn’t,” Roman mutters. 

But he did: on the back passenger door handle, black paint is scratched away to reveal white fiberglass, in what must be some kind of signature. Zsasz. 

At least it wasn’t the Rolls Royce.

“What kind of fucking name is that, anyway,” he asks his driver. 

“I don’t know, Mr. Sionis.” 

He’s not sure he wants to even spend the money to get it repaired in the shop. And it’s kind of sexy, in a weird way, even if he hates it on principle. Someone cares enough to carve his name into Roman’s stuff, where everyone can see.

Roman wants to go find him, let him know that it’s not okay to treat Roman Sionis’s things like that. Zsasz seems like a fucking brick wall, though. He lets out a puff of air, and makes it to his lunch appointment instead. 

Nathan, the designer, has some great ideas, Roman has to admit. He’s excited to start tearing things apart in the club, and to finally have something he can make his own.

**August 15, 2007**

From where Zsasz is sitting, he can just see a sliver of Roman’s collar-length hair, shining brassy in the sun. He’s laughing loudly. 

The man he’s sitting with, though, is in full view. His black hair is short and spiky. 

If Roman’s going to be so fucking obsessive, the least Zsasz can do is return the favor. 

He waits until their meeting is over. The man even walks Roman to his car, which makes Zsasz roll his eyes. Chivalry’s not dead. 

Zsasz gets over there as fast as he can, to meet the man as he walks through the mostly-empty parking lot. He grabs his arm, confident that there’s no one around to stop him.

“Hey, man, watch it--” the guy begins. But Victor doesn’t want to hear another damn word out of his mouth, so he cuts his throat before he can finish his sentence. It’s a simple kill, but it’s just as satisfying as anything else he’s done.

He thinks briefly about carving his name into the guy’s sculpted torso, but decides that it would be a fucking stupid move. Gotham City PD already knows who he is, and he doesn’t need any more heat from them. 

He’s sure Roman will get the hint, anyway.  
  


**August 23, 2007**

Roman knocks on Zsasz’s door, hand shaking a little from nerves. He’s rehearsed this in his head a few times already.

No answer, so he starts to pound his fist. He’s ready to start kicking it, if he needs to. The cheap apartment door might not survive all that.

Finally, it opens.

“What the fuck,” Zsasz snarls. He’s shirtless, and his bare chest is shining with sweat, gorgeously highlighting every one of his scars. 

Roman wants to say, hello, can I suck your dick. Instead he says, “Who the fuck do you think you are? Zorro? You can’t keep doing shit to my things.”

Zsasz spreads his arms wide. Muscles flex in his arms, and there’s dark hair all along them. “I thought you liked my work.”

Roman pushes past him into the apartment. There’s not a lot in the way of decor. There’s a big glass pitcher, though. Perfect. 

Roman picks it up, makes eye contact with Zsasz, and hurls it against the floor. The thick, old glass doesn’t break very satisfyingly, but it does crack open. “How does this feel?”

He kicks over the coffee table, which holds piles of old newspaper. “Do you like this?” he shouts.

Roman answers for him. “No! No, you don’t fucking like it. No one likes people fucking with their stuff. I don’t like it! Even people like _you_ don’t like it, okay.” He points a finger. “I get it! Your name is Zsasz. I know now. Which, that’s a weird name, right? Do people actually call you that?” 

Zsasz has been watching with an amused little look on his face, and now he’s actually laughing. Roman’s not sure how he feels about that. 

“Do you wanna know why I do it?” Zsasz asks. He has his arms around Roman, suddenly. it’s an intimate touch, but Roman’s too keyed-up to enjoy it. His pulse is rabbit-quick, which is probably what Zsasz wants from him anyway.

“Yes, of course I do,” Roman says. He nods and waves his hand, urging him on.

“I do it because all these people are sleepwalking through their lives. They’re better off dead. They’re zombies, taking up space and stinking the earth up.”

“Hmmm.” That sounds fucking crazy. Roman can relate.

“If you want to _help_ me, rich boy,” and Zsasz snakes a hand down to tug at the opening of Roman’s pants pocket, where his wallet is, “then just help me. Don’t sneak around like that.”

Roman snorts. “Not so rich right now. Trying to bring my club up and then get into the mob scene in Gotham. I’ve dabbled before, but... now I’m ready to realize my potential.”

“Ever heard of a patron of the arts? That could be you. With me.” 

Roman sighs. “I like your work. I _don’t_ like when you fuck up my car, or my apartment. Kill whoever you want, I don’t give a fuck. I’m not gonna let the important shit slide again, though.”

“What would you do if I did?” Zsasz is still inches from his face. 

“Do you know how many connections I have in this town?” Roman asks. He can make extended, creepy eye contact too. Zsasz isn’t the only one.

He pauses.

“Do you want to work for me, Zsasz?”

Zsasz is smiling at him, and not in a mocking way, which definitely counts as progress.

“You can call me Victor.”  
  


**October 13, 2007**

Roman invites Victor up to his loft before dinner.

Victor’s armed to the teeth, even though privately he likes to look at Roman, likes to watch how he moves and watch his muscles shift under his clothes. He’s not stupid, and he still doesn’t know exactly what a man like Roman could want with him. It’s all kind of suspicious.

“What are we here for, again?” He never actually said why in the first place.

“To get you dressed.” Roman says it like it’s obvious.

Roman has what looks like an entire menswear store laid out in a bedroom that looks far too plain to be his own. 

“I wasn’t sure of your size, but I made some educated guesses. And I asked my stylist to pick out some options for you. You can’t wear _that_ ,” he makes a noise and sweeps a hand up and down in Victor’s direction, “to the restaurant we’re going to.”

“So you want me to change.”

“Just your clothes, Mr. Zsasz!” He laughs. “I promise, this place will be worth it. The conversation will be worth it. And I know you miss Hungarian food.” It’s not like Roman to be so solicitous, and Victor’s a little curious, so he starts stripping his clothes off. He’s not sure if Roman is supposed to leave now or not, so he just goes ahead. 

Roman doesn’t leave. He sinks down into an armchair in the corner, and doesn’t pretend to do anything other than watch him. It doesn’t bother Victor. 

He pulls on a pair of black pants that look like they’re the right size. He starts to zip them up, but Roman goes, “No, not those. Look for a smaller size.”

Victor glares, but hunts out a size smaller. The jackets are all the same, just in different sizes, he realizes. Roman has an idea of how he wants him to look. The last time someone else tried to dress him, he was about 12. 

By the time he’s dressed, Roman has a tie picked out for him. It’s gray, with tiny little white pinstripes. 

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” Victor says, unable to stop himself.

Roman rolls his eyes. “I’ll do it for you.” He moves toward Victor, and tries to wrap the tie around his neck. 

Victor stops him. “Tie it first. I’ll tighten it myself.”

“It won’t look right if we do it that way, Zsasz.”

“I’m not letting you wrap anything around my neck.” Roman looks frustrated, but there’s a flicker of something else in his expression. He seems like he’s going to say something, and then he closes his eyes. A moment goes by.

“Okay. Okay! Let’s do it your way.” His smile is switched back on, blinding as usual. “You know what? Forget the tie. I don’t like them much myself. They’ll still let you in, since you’re with me.”

Roman must have excellent planning skills, because even after all that they make it to the restaurant on time. The place is called Kenyér és Halak. Victor hopes it’s not religious. The driver drops the two of them off, and it feels strangely like a date.

They make it to their table without incident, and Roman makes Zsasz get back up again when he tries to sit with his jacket still buttoned. It’s annoying, but he complies.

Roman gets straight into his pitch after that. 

“I’m ambitious. That’s always been my greatest flaw. Searching for something greater, you know?”

Victor nods. He decides it’s time to taste the wine. It’s red, and when he sticks his nose into the glass to drink, it fills with the scent of his father throughout his childhood. He wrinkles his nose and sets it down.

Roman notices this. “More of a spirits man, then?”

“Sure.” Victor will normally drink anything, but he doesn’t mind having Roman spend more money on him. 

Roman flags down a waiter and orders something with prices in the double-digits for just one shot. Then he gets right back into his tirade. “I’m building something in this city, Victor. God knows it needs something. I want to make Gotham a nice place for people like us, people who are real. I want something real for us.”

Victor nods, because he likes the sound of that. Gotham’s a special place, especially for people like him. People who are really alive.

Roman looks him in the eye pointedly, lingering. He lets his gaze drift down just a little, to his open shirt and the sliver of scarred chest on display. The gaze is so heavy it actually feels like Roman is running his hands over his skin. “You could be my main man.” 

It’s not clear if sex will actually be on the menu for the two of them, but the way Roman is looking at him makes Victor think it might be.

Victor nods again. 

A second bottle of wine arrives at the table, since Roman powered through the first one by himself.

“Oh. What the fuck is this shit?” he asks the waiter. “It’s certainly not what I asked for.”

“Sorry, sir. Busy night, you know how it is--”

“No, I don’t know how it is. I’ve never been a waiter at a corny fucking restaurant, dicking up my _one job--”_

Another passing server intervenes. “We can get the other wine out, it’ll be no trouble at all--”

Roman continues on. “You’re making me look like a fucking dipshit in front of my guest!” he yells, pitch edging upward. “I don’t like when people make me look like a dipshit.” He looks to Victor. “Why’s he doing this to me?”

“He’s been giving you weird looks all fuckin’ night,” Victor says, shaking his head. It’s not true, as far as he can tell, but he’s curious about what's going to happen here.

Roman stares the waiter in the eye. “Did my father put you up to this?” he asks, his voice low and shaky. 

“Sir, I don’t even know your name,” the waiter says testily. 

“Now he’s just playing dumb! Everyone who works here knows me,” Roman says, looking to Victor again, and well. If that wasn’t true before, it is now. “I’m Roman fucking Sionis!” 

A tall and imposing woman, probably the manager, steps in between Roman and the waiter. 

“We’re going to have to ask you to leave, sir.”

Roman thumps the table. “I came here to enjoy a meal with my associate. There’s nothing wrong with that!” He’s screaming, red in the face. 

“Nothing wrong with it,” Victor echoes in a quieter tone, staring daggers at the manager. She meets Victor’s eye and then sighs.

“You’re causing a scene. We have a security team here, sir, please don’t make me call them.”

“I want to eat my meal here,” Roman insists. “You fucking bitch! Jesus, people are always ruining things for me!” In a fit of inspiration, he pushes at the original waiter, who has been holding about fifteen pounds of food this entire time. Pastries and vivid red soup and glasses of water and heavy fucking dishes go fucking everywhere, some of it even on Roman. He’s too wound up to care. 

Ms. Manager doesn’t even need to call security, they’re already on their way. 

“You two fuckheads are both banned from here, do you hear me?” someone yells from the back of the restaurant. “You come back, and I call the fucking cops!”

“Don’t fucking touch me, unless you wanna lose that arm,” Victor says, with enough conviction that his assigned security guard keeps his hands to himself. 

Roman’s being moved bodily to the front door, though. He looks good, being manhandled like that. His linen suit is gonna be wrinkled after this.

“God, that was a fucking bust,” he says bitterly, when they’re both out on the street. “I’ll have them shut down. They can’t talk to me like that. I’m sick of being treated like trash, Victor,” he says suddenly. His eyes are intense, a little unfocused, and he’s looking at Victor as if he somehow holds the answers to all his problems.

Victor takes both of his wrists, holds them tight, like he would if he were restraining someone. Like Roman’s somebody he’s about to gut. 

He won’t do that to Roman, though. Not when he’s looking at Victor like this. 

“Breathe,” he says. Roman takes a small, shuddering breath, and Victor uses the opportunity to get an arm around his shoulders and pull him in closer. From here, Victor can smell his cologne, can smell Roman’s skin underneath the artificial musk. He takes a deep breath, and miraculously, Roman follows along with him, none the wiser that Victor’s scenting him out like a fucking dog. 

“You’re good at this,” Roman says, and his voice rumbles low in his chest. 

Victor smiles at him. 

“Let’s go to my club,” Roman says. And Victor’s always up for a party, so he agrees.

The place seems strangely quiet from the outside, and Victor’s on alert again, even after that strange moment he shared with Roman on the sidewalk. You can’t trust a pretty boy.

When Roman fumbles his keys out and opens it up, it’s clear Victor had the wrong idea. The place is empty and ruined-looking. Wallpaper’s peeling off in sheets, half the carpet is torn up. The furniture is all covered with plastic tarps, but it’s utilitarian and ugly furniture Victor’s surprised to see anywhere associated with Roman. The high ceiling makes the place downright cavernous. 

But the bar is well-stocked. 

“I’m in the middle of renovations,” Roman explains as he reaches over the bar for whiskey. Victor’s shocked to see that it’s something he recognizes. Something that the corner store by his apartment sells.

They get right to drinking it. Roman’s stuck on his supposed mistreatment at the restaurant for about an hour, and then the whiskey does its work and mellows him out. 

“I really think we could take this city on together, Victor. You and me. Brains and brawn.”

Victor’s drunk too, so he doesn’t even take offense at Roman’s insinuation. 

“Gotham City eating out of the palms of our hands,” he agrees. They’re sharing a booth, and as they’d drained the whiskey, Roman had edged closer and closer to him. Currently, he feels the heat of Roman’s body all against his right side. From his leg to his shoulder, it’s all Roman. Between that and the booze, he’s feeling flushed. 

Roman balances himself on Victor’s shoulder and leans in to tell him, “You’re so good with a knife.” His coordination is a little off, and his nose grazes Victor’s cheek. 

Victor wants to just grab him and stick his tongue down his throat. Instead he says, “I have to take a leak.”

Roman scrunches his nose up. It’s upsettingly attractive-- Victor refuses to think of an adult man’s bratty affectations as “cute.” 

Victor does a bump of coke in the bathroom, just to keep himself alert and stop himself from fucking melting into Roman’s arms. There’s something wrong with him tonight.

When he gets back, Roman’s glass is full again. The bottle’s nearly empty, which surprises Victor. He didn’t think they were drinking that much. 

“Are you holding out on me?” Roman asks, head tilted, when he returns with a different kind of buzz on. Or maybe Victor’s spilled powder on himself and he’s being obvious.

Victor sighs, and pulls out the baggie.

Roman doesn’t snort it. Instead, he rubs some on his gums. Then he grabs Victor’s face and plants a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss on him. He tastes like booze and mint. 

“So you’re not missing out,” he says. “I wouldn’t want that.” It’s nonsense, and that's not how coke works, but Victor’s not complaining.

“Thank you,” Victor says. He’s aiming for sarcastic, but he misses the mark and it comes out sounding embarrassingly genuine. His skin is buzzing and he wants more than that.

He’s still thinking about how to get it when Roman yawns theatrically and then puts an arm around him, pulling Victor toward him. 

He slams his whiskey, and lowers the glass, not even wincing from those several ounces of straight alcohol.

“I’m fuckin’ beat,” he says. “I’m going upstairs.” He lets that hang in the air a moment before adding, “Do you want to come?”

“Yeah, okay.”

When they get inside, Roman takes off his shoes and sunglasses and jacket, insisting that Victor does the same. The apartment is jammed full of weird statues and masks and too much furniture for a man who lives alone. Victor feels a thrill at remembering that Roman spends most of his time here, bouncing off the walls by himself, making up his batshit plans. 

Victor follows close behind Roman’s meandering stride, because he doesn’t want to get lost in here. 

Roman keeps up a slurred chattering as they walk through endless hallways, talking about famous people who gave him things and special things he bought abroad. Victor doesn’t say anything in response. 

“And finally,” Roman says, stopping in front of a doorway with an uneven flourish, “the bedroom!”

He struggles to open the door, so Victor eventually just does it for him. 

Roman unbuttons his shirt and tosses it over a chair. He undoes his slacks and leaves them when they fall on the floor, then staggers over to the bed and sits on the edge. Then he’s just in cotton boxers that make him look young and vulnerable.

“Are you okay?” Victor asks, and those are words that haven’t come out of his mouth in years.

“Fucking great,” Roman says. His eyes are glassy and strange. Victor sits next to him. 

“Maybe you should sleep.” 

“I’m getting to work on that,” he mumbles. Victor sighs and gets up to sit on the lovechair by the window. Gotham glitters below him, and it may as well be a million fucking miles away. He decides to smoke a cigarette, assuming Roman’s too out of it do anything about it.

He underestimated him, though, because as soon as his flicks his lighter on Roman sits up and goes “Hey, no fuckin’ smoking in here. This’s not a club.” 

Roman’s too drunk to come over here and stop him, but he pockets the cigarettes and the lighter anyway. 

“Sorry. It’s just that you’re not living up to your reputation as a host right now.”

Roman snorts. “I’ll show you a good fucking host. I can host the shit out of you.”

“Oh yeah? When?”

Roman mumbles something incoherent. 

Zsasz thinks he’s ready to get out of there. He’s gonna go home, have a fucking cigarette, jerk off. He’s still in the clothes Roman got for him. He's not sure where _his_ clothes are. 

When he opens the bedroom door to leave, Roman makes a noise. Zsasz turns to look at him. 

“What?”

“Don’t go,” he says. “Come over here and lie down.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to.”

“I dunno.” Zsasz isn’t convinced. Not convinced that it’s a good idea, or that he wants to.

“C’mere and I’ll show you I’m serious. ‘Bout Gotham, and fucking shit up.” 

“You gonna remember this in the morning?” 

“‘Course! Fucking get over here.”

Zsasz doesn’t normally like it when people order him around. His whole life is designed around his solitary practices: killing, making tallies, avoiding bullshit. In some ways, Roman’s like a noisy little chihuahua nipping at his heels. But his intensity is burning him up. Victor wants to take a closer look and see whether it’s going to spread or burn itself out.

He has nothing to lose by spending the night in the warmth of Roman’s bed.

So he shucks off his clothes, and Roman goes, “Take those fucking socks off” when he tries to wear them in the bed. The scar tissue keeps him from feeling too naked. 

It's a little _too_ warm for him here, actually, but Roman curls around him almost immediately and now he can't move away. 

Victor realizes he's never spent the night with anyone like this before without fucking them first, and it's a lot harder to get to sleep without that rush of endorphins. But maybe wasted cuddling comes with its own chemical release. 

**Author's Note:**

> roman's idea of budgeting is "immediately buys a serial killer he's never met $300+ in gifts"
> 
> 1\. “you could be my main man” shamelessly lifted from velvet goldmine, where [ewan mcgregor delivers that very line to devastating (imo) effect.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6-2doIEpFVE) you should just watch the whole movie if you can tbh
> 
> 2\. fic title from the used's sound effects and overdramatics, a very zsaszmask song in my opinion. there are even lyrics about masks in it. there are like five lines from it i want to use as fic titles tbh. 
> 
> 3\. wrote this in a few fevered days, am absolutely obsessed with this pairing right now?! have lost all judgment. more to come


End file.
